The Tales from the North
by Altariel
Summary: Faramir becomes obsessed with some strange stories from the North.


**The Tales from the North**

Quite how the little green book had come to the library of Dol Amroth not even Prince Adrahil knew, but there it was, ready to fall under the eager and rapacious eye of the boy from Minas Tirith. Faramir, at the age of fourteen, was hungry for everything, stories not least, and his grandfather's library proved a treasure trove.

The book contained tales from the northlands; legends of the Lossoth, collected and retold. He had never read their like before. There were bears and wolves and woodland spirits. A lady in a blue cloak. There were mothers and sisters and not a single mention of kings or stewards… The land was different too – not the hot sun and white stone of his City; nor the blue seas and skies of his mother-land, but a place altogether colder and harder; fens and lakes and cruel winters. Sometimes bright lights burned up the sky. He was transported.

After a year in Dol Amroth, Faramir returned home. His grandfather gave him the book to take back with him. In Minas Tirith, he found things much changed. His father, before his departure, had been a good companion, ready enough most evenings after supper for a game of chess. Sometimes they even read to each other. Faramir's tastes were different from his father's, but spending time with him was sufficient compensation. Altogether, they had rubbed along very well. But in the year that Faramir had spent away, Denethor had, it seemed, grown used to being by himself. He spent hours in the Tower, often returning home long after Faramir had sought his own bed. As a result, they saw very little of each other. It was not as if Faramir had nothing to do. Training for his imminent entry into the army; keeping up with his studies – and, of course, there were his own interests. Chief amongst these, at this time, was the world that had made the little green book.

Faramir had barely been home three days before his first visit to the archive. Old Parmandil, twisting the book between his hands, admiring it, directed him towards his favourite seat, and brought out treasure after treasure. Best were the books in the language of the Lossoth, and there was a dictionary too, rather slight, but enough for him to start working slowly through the stories. Soon his natural gift took over, and he began to read quite fluently, murmuring the words to himself. He loved the sound of the tongue; it was beautiful, he thought, with a musical lilt, and yet that odd staccato to the syllables that made the poetry so compelling.

After that – well, composition was inevitable. He was drawn to the story of the peasant boy, the one whose grandfather had been a swan, and in whose life there were faint echoes of tales that he knew well. He traced the key lines of his life – the dead mother and father, the hard and distant guardian, the loneliness and sadness. The trials he came through – the drowning, the hanging, the burning… In some secret chamber of his heart, he admired the boy's refusal to obey. Then came the horrors, enough to thrill the heart of anyone his age – the spells and curses, the wedding to the unknown sister, her death by water, his on the point of his own sword. The story was like Turambar's, he saw, like his own tradition – but harsher, crueller, unlike. How strange, he thought, that there should be these echoes… How strange that these tales should move around like this, and alter, as if the land shaped them in some way… Could he reshape them? He began to retell the tale, to his own satisfaction.

He knew, in his heart, that he was spending too much time on this, but he could not let go. Quietly, he was proud of his increasing mastery of the language, and while he knew his own efforts were not _good_ , he believed they were not bad either. But the work took time, and stole attention from other duties. He would sit up late at night, reading and writing, and the next day he would be slow with his sword, and woolly-headed with his tutors. Most unlike him. It wasn't long before matters came to a head.

He had spent another half-hearted day, counting down the hours. He ate supper quickly, and bounded up the stairs, two at a time, racing down the corridor to his rooms at the back of the house, eager to get back to work. He barely noticed that his door was slightly open. He ran inside—

To find Denethor, sitting at his desk, waiting for him. Between his hands he was holding the little green book.

What followed was an interview so painful that years later Faramir would still flush at the memory. Denethor, it rapidly transpired, had read what he had written. (There it was, after all, spread out across most of his desk.) And he was displeased. Not with the work itself – as if he would pass judgement on something so completely beneath his attention – but with the simple fact of its existence. No, not quite that. The fact that its existence came at a cost. Quietly, carefully – patiently, almost, that was what made the whole conversation so excruciating – his father explained how it was time for Faramir to make a choice.

"This," he said, and held up the book, "is a kind of theft. Not from you, not from me – from Gondor. What do you think you should do, Faramir?"

Well, what could be said in return? When his father was done, Faramir swore to him that he would waste no more time, that the books and notes would go away, and he would devote himself completely to the task at hand – to become what Gondor needed. After his father left, and burning with shame, he packed it all away, shoved the books and the rest into a drawer. How could he have been so selfish? So self-indulgent? What had he been thinking? The next day he applied himself to his training and his studies, and the next day, and the next…

But his mind kept drifting back. He would wake in the middle of the night, thinking about the tale he had been telling. He would try to put it out of his mind, roll over and go back to sleep, but no use. One night, unable to rest, he slipped out of bed, pulled out the papers, and began to write…

That evening, he sat up late, waiting to hear his father's heavy tread in the hall. Then he went down to Denethor's study. His father watched as he piled the notes and the books and the maps and the drawings onto his desk. He said, "I cannot keep my promise. Not without your help."

He surrendered the lot. Denethor, nodding, picked them up and locked them away.

* * *

Sometimes, in the years that followed, he would look at the point of his sword and wonder what, if it could speak, it would say to him. What it might advise. But he had promised not to think about that any more. So he didn't.

* * *

By the time the book turned up again, he had all but forgotten about it. But a day came when he was master of the house. He opened a drawer that had been long sealed – and there it was. He sat back in his father's chair – his chair – and began to read. The tales still worked their spell; the odd alien magic of a strange alien people. He read quietly, peacefully, for the best part of an hour. Nobody disturbed him. And then he thought, _But what about the rest?_

He pulled the drawer out further, rummaged around until he found what he was looking for – papers written in his own hand, or how his hand had been more than twenty years ago. He lifted them out – it was all there, all his work – and began to read. Soon he was smiling. A boy's attempt at something well beyond his capability. _What audacity we have_ , he thought, _in youth!_ To try something like this, in a language he had been learning for a handful of weeks… He would never have the daring now. Here and there were glimpses of something better, but nothing worth salvaging… Then he saw the comments in the margins.

He peered at them. Yes, that was his father's hand, on almost every page… A note here, a correction there, a suggestion for a change… Had he really read this? When? And what had been his intention? To return the papers? To pass on these careful, well-judged notes? He would never know. He could never know, never guess, his father's intentions for him.

He put the papers away, for good this time, and the little green book went on the shelf. The tales, however, came in useful many times. He drew upon them for nearly a year, at bedtime, trying to persuade his eldest two to sleep. One bright spring morning, he saw his daughter curled up in the library, the little green book in her hand. He left her in peace, to read.

And then there was the day when an embassy came from the far north; two proud and cautious visitors, speaking in halting Westron. Stepping forwards, he said to them, in their own language:

" _Let us clasp our hands together  
Let us interlock our fingers  
Let us gather here in friendship  
Let us use our best endeavours…"_

They melted. Beside him, his liege lord muttered, "Is there anything you don't know?"

He did not reply, merely smiled. The treaty followed not long after.

* * *

 **Notes**

In October I took a day trip from Oxford to Cambridge to see the Tolkien exhibition at the Bodleian before it closed. On the way there and back I read _The Story of Kullervo_. This story was inspired by that, and by discovering that Tolkien nearly got kicked out of Oxford for getting obsessed with the Kalevala. It is also inspired by the summer I bunked off and wrote fanfic, July-October 2018.

Parmandil is from Azalais' wonderful story _After Such Knowledge_.

This story placed joint first in the Teitho September/October 2018 'Honour' challenge.

 _Altariel, 9_ _th_ _October 2018_


End file.
